René Fonck

Highest Scoring Allied Ace, 75 kills

While shooting down 75 German planes, René
Fonck was never wounded and claimed that only one enemy bullet ever hit
his airplane. He was methodical, detailed, a skilled marksman, and a
braggart. He took pride in using the least amount of ammunition
necessary to bring down an enemy. He was a fine flier, but his
self-promotion won him few close friends.

He didn't drink or carouse
with the other pilots, preferring to plan missions, perform
calisthenics, and press his uniforms. In a remark that displayed both
his skill and his boastfulness, he once said, "I put my bullets into
the target as if by hand."

Background

René Paul Fonck was born on March 27, 1894, in Saulcy-sur-Merthe, a
typical French village in the mountainous Vosges region. At 20, when
the war started, he was assigned to the engineers and spent several
months digging trenches, building bridges, and fixing roads.

In early 1915, he entered flight training, first at Saint-Cyr, then
at Le Crotoy. His first combat unit was Escadrille Caudron 47 at
Corcieux, flying a Caudron G.4 (an ungainly-looking
bomber/reconnaissance plane: a twin-engined biplane, with a pilot
nacelle instead of a full-length fuselage). He did fine work as an
observation pilot, twice being mentioned in dispatches. He shot down
his first enemy aircraft in July 1916, in a Caudron that had been
fitted with a machine gun. But in his greatest feat in a G.4, he didn't
fire a weapon at all. On August 6, he attacked a German Rumpler C-III.
Maneuvering over and around the reconnaissance plane, he skillfully
stayed out of its field of fire, while continually forcing it lower and
lower. Eventually, the German had to land behind French lines; Fonck
had captured a new, undamaged prize for the Allies to inspect.

Les Cigognes

Following this, Fonck was transferred to Escadrille Spad 103, Les
Cigognes, the Storks, France's premier fighter groups, comprised of
escadrilles S.3, S.26, S.73, and S.103. After several months of
training in single-seaters, he began flying Spads in May, 1917.

(In this month the ultimate version of the Spad, the S.XIII, began
to be delivered to French units. Presumaby the Storks received early
deliveries. Powered by a Hispano-Suiza 235 HP engine, capable of 138
MPH, the Spad S.XIII was the fastest aircraft of World War I. It
weighed 1,800 pounds and was considered to be very rugged for that era.
It carried two synchronized machine guns. The French built 8,472 of the
S.XIII and it was the superior fighter plane for the remaining 18
months of the war. Fonck scored most of his kills in a Spad S.XIII.)
In less than two weeks, he became an ace. By the fall of 1917, he had
downed 18 German planes, and was inducted into the Legion of Honor.

Always anxious to prove his claims, on September 14, he recovered
the barograph from an aircraft he had shot down. The instrument
confirmed Fonck's rendition of the encounter, showing that the German
plane had reached 20,000 feet, had maneuvered lower while dueling
Fonck, had zoomed up briefly at 5,000 feet (as the pilot pulled back on
the stick when hit), and then had stalled and crashed.

The great French ace, Georges Guynemer,
disappeared on September 11. The Germans claimed that he was shot down
by Kurt Wisseman, a Rumpler pilot, and a good one, as he was credited
with five kills while flying the two-seaters. Shortly, Fonck achieved a
measure of revenge for the French Aviation militaire. On the
30th, he spotted a two-seater flying at 9,000 feet. Sensing that the
rear gunner was alert to him, he expertly moved in below and behind,
where he could not be fired on. Fonck fired two bursts. The Rumpler
fell inside the French lines and the dead pilot's papers identified him
as Kurt Wisseman.
He told a journalist that by killing "the murderer of my good friend,"
he had become "the tool of retribution." This statement might have
surprised the dead Guynemer, since he and Fonck were never friends.

He is not a truthful man. He is a tiresome braggart, and
even a bore, but in the air, a slashing rapier, a steel blade tempered
with unblemished courage and priceless skill. ... But afterwards he
can't forget how he rescued you, nor let you forget it. He can almost
make you wish he hadn't helped you in the first place."

One has to wonder what his enemies said. The
following excerpt from his memoirs reveals much of Fonck's character.

An Excerpt from Ace of Aces

Chapter 21
A NEW AERIAL TACTIC

MAJOR BROCARD called a meeting in Dunkirk's best hotel.
"Prepare your maps and conserve all your energy," he
said, "for there is a big job to be done over there."
This region of Flanders, so rich and flat, was a tough
assignment for the "Storks" Furthermore, our first reconnaissance
flights did not show it to be very gracious.
We had before us, at the extreme boundary of the front
line, a spongy terrain where the water sneakily infiltrated
the slightest holes - a muddy swampland where bogged-
down tanks disappeared entirely without leaving a trace.
Our infantry comrades were not able to dig trenches.

Mounds of sandbags outlined the plain winding lines,
and the overflowing Yser River remained for five years
the impenetrable barrier before which the invader was
stopped.

Shells penetrate the earth and often do not burst.
When an explosion is produced, it projects a veritable outpouring of
mud in all directions, and soon, around
the newly dug crater, a characteristic bubbling indicates
that another pool is in the process of being made. To
stay put in these regions, it is necessary to have solid
morale and a temperament indisposed to rheumatism.
Perpetual fog adds further to the impression of sadness
which invincibly comes from this countryside where
the eye does not find a landmark worthwhile enough
on which to concentrate.

The premature death of Rodenbach undoubtedly deprived us of an
admirable poem. The author of Bruges
La Morte truly expressed the poignant melancholia of
this country. He alone would have known how to write
the glorious chronicle of the armies' gathered on the
banks of the Yser.

The enemy did not seem to suspect anything. I flew
over Ostende without difficulty at first, and even Zeebrugge, where the
enemy submarines had their main
hiding places. My first patrol missions would have been
devoid of interest if I aid not have as a distraction the
flights of the Angto-French flotillas which constantly
guarded the coast a short distance away. Soon, however, the enemy sent
up their best fighter squadrons
to meet us. They surprised us with their new combat
tactics, and it immediately became a very rough situation for us.
We were attacked at all altitudes and at all times.

Fritz was admirably protected by his antiaircraft batteries.
Our reconnaissance squadrons were worn out
Every day the planes returned riddled with holes, and
often the pilots were wounded as well. I knew sunny
days when the entire atmosphere vibrated with the
sound of propellers. The report room was never empty.
Each minute a pilot in flight uniform came to describe
the details of his last combat.

The Boches developed a new tactic. They brought
out of hiding a new flight pattern. We now had to deal
with groups of fighters trained to maneuver together.
Each of us successively were at grips with eight, or
ten Fokkers at one time. Our great aces, taken unaware,
were hit quite seriously, and some never returned.
Little by little the survivors felt the superiority of the air slipping
out of our hands. Heurtaux, Deullin,
Auger, and Matton were wounded or dead. (Captain
Matton and Captain Auger were killed in Flanders.)
Guynemer, the immortal hero, left one morning never
to return, and others less well known also marked this
painful calvary with their graves.

We had to concede that our old tactic of the lone,
isolated fighter plane would no longer work. Consequently, we too
decided to create teams, and that's
the way it was. It seems that in France a memorandum suffices to remedy
all evils, but once drawn, nobody seems to bother about the means of
execution.
Regardless of the importance of the measure, nobody
worries ordinarily about how to apply it.

I, for my part, had some trouble mastering this new
method. With the authorization of Captain D'Harcourt,
I bad recruited some young volunteer pilots. We left
together in groups of six or seven, and I led my pupils
in the attack on the Krauts.

I don't even remember bringing down a single plane,
but our attempts provoked the intervention of enemy reinforcements
eager to protect their comrades. Soon
there was a dogfight, and my buddies were obliged to
become familiar with the tactic. I was there more or less
to support them, and I successively relieved the clumsy
ones, but I could not engage in real combat myself,
for I would have risked the slaughter of the most inexperienced of my
pilots. I let loose a burst here or
there, always remaining on the alert. My group thus
acquired, very quickly, a great ability to maneuver.
Our sorties henceforth continued in triangular formation
in groups of three or four. My pilots protected me from
attacks in the rear and, for my part, I had the responsibility for the
rest of the sky.
In this way, we did a pretty good job, and I can boast
about not having suffered even the slightest loss. On the
other hand, my squadron was the one which had the
greatest number of confirmed victories in Flanders.

Chapter 22
THE FLANDERS OFFENSIVE
(JULY 1917)

THE Flanders offensive was in full swing. The merged
armies were grouped pell-mell - English, French and
Belgians. In the air the fusion was complete, and it
was not rare to find a patrol where the three Allied
nations were represented.

An August 9, Captain D'Harcourt, at the head of the
entire Squadron, was flying protective cover for a bombardment
operation. We were flying over Dixmude at
an altitude of 3000 meters and were about 10 kilometers
inside the German lines, when we ran into two groups of
enemy fighter planes, each one consisting of sixteen
Fokkers. Never before did I have such a picnic.

Accompanied by a few comrades, Captain D'Harcourt
quickly went to the assistance of some of our bombers
that were having a rough time. It would be impossible
for me to describe all the details of the battle. It was
much more than a skirmish at least thirty planes took
part in that dogfight.

Two Sopwith two-seater planes (Sopwith 1 1/2 Strutter
observation planes) not far from me had sustained damage and were in
trouble. Their machine guns were disabled. Three German planes realized
the situation and were attacking furiously. It was
then that I intervened. On my first pass I brought one
of them down in flames. The other two were now getting
into range, and using a tactical maneuver that was
quite familiar to me, I swung over to broadside and
again a German plane fell. The third escaped.
I now felt that I could join my comrades and set
down on our aerodrome.

The month of August was a veritable aerial massacre
for the enemy. The region of Nieuport, Ypres, Dixmude
and the Forest of Houtulst are now nothing but a
vast cemetery where many of their squadrons were
engulfed. The number of enemy fighter and reconnaissance planes
diminished every day under our blows.

I had become a virtuoso, and having seriously practiced
my art, I succeeded in hitting the enemy from every
angle, from no matter what position I found myself in
contact with him. From that time on, my greatest
victories took place.

The "Stork" Group enjoyed considerable prestige. We
were the uncontested elite of the Army of the Air, and
our reputation had extended even beyond the boundaries of our country.

The Prince of Wales came in person to extend to us
his congratulations and to have lunch with us. He was
pleased to accept the small silver stork insignia of Spad
No. 3 as a souvenir of this occasion.
Later the King of Belgium did us the same honor,
and by a wonderful gesture which touched us deeply,
Queen Elizabeth was gracious enough to accompany
him. These sovereigns, whose heroic attitude joined the
admiration of the entire world, accepted, as mementos, the stork
insignia of the 103rd.

Such visits exalted our courage and inspired even the
humblest of us to attempt astonishing feats of daring.
The French are built in such a way that the satisfaction
of pride moves them more than material reward, and we
would have considered ourselves undeserving if some
other flying group had succeeded in equaling us.

Persons less distinguished but with whom we felt
more at ease were frequently our hosts. We also mingled
with our Allied comrades. Thieffry, the great Belgian ace,
was often with us; and without his foreign uniform
and his accent, the true brotherhood that we showed
each other would have resulted in his being taken for one of us.

These receptions were mutual, and I too was often
carried off triumphantly to the mess hall on landing at a Belgian or
English aerodrome. But these military
pleasures also had their drawbacks. Our field at Saint-
Pol had been installed in a dry haven which could be
easily recognized from the air, thanks to the proximity
of the sea. Almost every night, the Boche bombardiers
awakened us. The mess hall of Spad No. 3 was hit one
day by several bombs, and Guynemer's phonograph, zealously guarded,
still shows the trace of it.

Chapter 23
A BLACK DAY

SEPTEMBER 11, 1917, must be marked down as a dark
day for us. On that day our Air Force lost its most glorious hero.
In prose and verse, others have praised his exploits
and expressed the grief to the entire country. Parliament voted him the
Honors of the Pantheon. But the
finest mark of admiration and regret is that which remains forever
engraved in the hearts of his comrades-
in-arms, each of whom made himself his avenger. Unfortunately, all too
many of them fell in this attempt.
Guynemer left on patrol at the crack of dawn. It
was daybreak, and the first rays of the sun, emerging
from the mist, were sparkling on the foliage, prematurely brown because
of the coolness of the nights.

While the mechanics were scurrying about to check
out his plane, the pilot, a little nervous, as if a secret
apprehension was haunting him, was pacing up and
down feverishly, like a lion in his cage.
"Guynemer is not in a good mood this morning," observed someone, but
none of us thought at the time to
attach any importance to this reflection.
Finally his motor began to turn over, and our companion quickly hopped
into the cockpit; the propeller
started spinning and, like a great bird, the plane took
off. At the same time Lieutenant Bozon-Verduras rose
to join him.

What happened after that? Nobody ever learned the
exact truth. We only know that they flew together and
gave mutual support to each other in several engagements.
Lieutenant Bozon, separated from his companion in
the midst of combat, lost sight of him and returned
alone to our field.

This was not the first time that Guynemer came back
late, so nobody thought of worrying, but as the hours
passed his absence became more and more the subject
of all of our conversations. Major Brocard no longer
hid his anxiety. Information was requested by telephone
from the front lines, and we soon learned that a French
plane had been seen shot down within theBoche lines.
The observers said, however, that the plane was not
in flames and that the pilot was perhaps only injured.

Two or three days went by and the return of Guynemer became
more and more improbable. We hoped
nevertheless that he had gotten out of it, and that an
escape, or peace, would bring him back to us. But an
enemy newspaper deprived us of even this hope. It
published, along with the name of the victor. Captain
Wissemann, news of the death of our national hero.
I was near the hangar when Major Brocard brought
us the sad verification. It was a terrific shock and I
quickly took my Spad up, determined to seek in the air
an escape from my deep sorrow.

Ten minutes after I took off, I spotted a plane in the
distance. I recognized it immediately as a two-seater
photo-reconnaissance job. Absorbed in their work, its
two occupants had not seen my approach. As usual, I
climbed very high in order to dive on the enemy. This
tactic, instinctive to birds of prey, always seemed to me
to be the best strategy.
I surprised them in an attitude of complete security,
the pilot still at his controls, and the observer in the act
of taking photos, bending out over the cockpit waist-
high.

I swooped down but waited until I was a few meters
away before opening fire. With my eyes fixed on the
sight, I quickly saw all the details growing rapidly in size. Aiming
directly for the middle of the plane, my
bullets raked the area which housed the motor and the
aircraft's crew.

It wasn't long before I saw the results. Undoubtedly
killed by the first burst, the pilot must have slumped
in his seat, jamming the controls in his agony, for the
plane immediately began to spin. While rapidly banking to avoid
collision, I saw the body of the observer,
still alive, falling from the upside-down plane.
For a split second he had tried to remain in his seat.
He passed only a few meters from my left wing, his
arms frantically clutching at the emptiness. I shall never
forget that sight.

But the incendiary bullets had done their job, and the
plane, like a gigantic torch, went down at full speed,
crashing to the earth where the body of the observer had preceded it.

Such was the funeral of Guynemer to me. This my fourteenth
confirmed victory.

Chapter 24
GUYNEMER AVENGED

A FEW days later, the Group left Flanders.
These misty regions, where rain and fog reign without interruption for
months on end, are likely to keep an organization such as the "Storks"
grounded for an
entire winter. To have kept us tied down any longer would have been a
veritable waste of strength.
From time to time during the autumn, we were barely able to claim a few
victories, and for my latest success I brought down a big
reconnaissance two-seater.

I was patrolling on September 30, 1917, at an altitude of 4000
meters with several comrades, when I saw this bold fellow flying below
us. He calmly continued his inspection as though his life were somehow
magically protected from danger. I immediately opened up the throttle
and my Spad leaped forward. That Boche character did not seem concerned
:at this, but upon approaching, I saw his machine gun ready for action.

The maneuver required close precision, but I was already an old
hand at this game. While still bearing down on him, I caused my plane
to make irregular movements similar to those which permit a butterfly
to escape its enemies, and my tactics evidently seemed to disconcert
him.

I do not subscribe to the historic chivalrous attitude nor the
lengths employed by Fontency in his offer to the enemy. This French
commander was supposed to have said: "Englishmen, you may fire first."
This, to my way of thinking, is a very unpractical method. If the
English had then had machine guns at their disposal, probably not a
single Frenchman would have returned to report those gallant words. I
believe it is necessary to adopt a middle-of-the-road attitude, not to
waste bullets but to fire away at the very moment when I have the best
chance to score.

Therefore, without answering back, I accepted the fire of the
Boche three times, but when my turn came and I fired my machine guns, I
immediately had the satisfaction of seeing the enemy plane shudder. I
went through some feints, and quickly coming out, I succeeded in
placing myself under the rudder of my adversary. Almost simultaneously
I caught both the pilot and machine gunner in my fire.
From above, I watched their fall. A thousand meters below me, perhaps,
one of the plane's wings broke off, and the men were catapulted from
their seats. I always felt a little compassion for my victims, despite
the slightly animalistic satisfaction of having saved my own skin and.
the patriotic joy of victory.

I often preferred to spare their lives, especially when they
fought bravely-but, as I believe I once said, in aerial combat there is
usually no other alternative than victory or death, and it is rarely
possible to give quarter to the enemy without betraying the interests
of your country.

Thus, these latest Boches brought down had been admirable.
Pilot and machine gunner had not for a moment lost their composure, and
seeing me approach, instead of disrupting their reconnaissance mission
and turning tail for home at full speed, they had waited for me,
courageously accepting combat without batting an eyelash.
No sooner did I land than I took a vehicle to go and see my victims and
examine on the spot the remains of the plane to learn if the situation
called for improvement in my technique. Some officers had preceded me,
and the first news that they gave me was
that one of the bodies carried papers identifying it as
Wissemann, the very same one to whom the German
newspapers gave credit as the victor over Guynemer.

A few days later we left for a new sector, and this
move had the most fateful consequences for the Group.
Our squadron was going to have as its base a little
village in the vicinity of Soissons, named Chaudun.
All experienced pilots we had sent out despite the storm. A plane is
always ready for flight, and I only
had to give my faithful mechanic, Grue, two hours'
advance notice in order to find my two valises aboard
and the plane ready to take off. Grue had been, my
orderly for a long time. He had a maternal instinct toward me, and
rejoiced at my successes as if he himself was supposed to share in the
glory.

Terrible news reached me upon arrival, Tourtel, caught
in the fog, was killed in the vicinity of Crepy-en-Valois, and a
similar tragedy happened that same day to
Captain De la Tour near Amiens. In these unfortunate
accidents two heroes who had rendered to the Aviation Service and to
their country the most eminent service were lost to France.

They were two faithful friends whose loss I will find
it hard to get over.

Chapter 25
VERDUN

OUR arrival at Verdun took place on January 19, 1918.
We now had as our chief a replacement for Major
Brocard, Major Hormant, and if the departure of the
former had depressed us, we soon had to recognize that
in choosing his successor supreme headquarters had a
stroke of genius.

A horse-back riding enthusiast, Maior Hormant had
the precise and rapid eye of a rider. He hid beneath
his stern exterior a big heart and knew how to formally
mitigate a punishment that another might have dealt
with more harshly. He was soon adored by all, and this
is an essential quality for a group leader.

Superiority in our branch of service is a state of
mind. To really surpass the enemy, it is necessary to
have almost the equivalent number of planes, and a
perfect stability of mind which furnishes the means to
dominate him. The pursuer who gives way to preoccupation deprives
himself of part of his advantages
by this solitary fact. He will lose, in decisive moments,
absolute mastery over himself, and that, at the peril
of his life and to the detriment of his outfit.

Everywhere we went, the Boches let themselves be
outmaneuvered by us. Everywhere we had difficult times
at the beginning, but we always came out of it success-
fully, to our honor-for nothing was able to distract us
from our assignment, and we were certain, whatever
the results of our undertakings might be, fortunate
or unfortunate, to have the complete confidence of our
leaders.

The sectors in which we operated were ordinarily,
before our arrival, more or less conceded to the enemy
unless the preparation of an offensive seemed to justify
a certain activity. First of all, we had to fight against
determined adversaries, accustomed to hold their ground
as if they were defending their own land; naturally, the
first encounters were very fierce. But soon we regained
our customary supremacy; and with us to protect them
our reconnaissance planes regained their confidence.

To keep us in good shape, our commandant spared
nothing. The "Stork" Club had a meeting hall where the
most varied entertainment was placed at our disposal.
When the weather was bad, we spent endless hours
discussing aerial strategy and having a good time like
children. If someone suffered from an obvious case ofthe blues. Major
Hormant did not take long to realize it, and a leave of absence,
offered opportunely, permitted the troubled individual to join us a few
days later, with renewed vigor and in possession of all his faculties.

The sacred soil of Verdun, where we were going to operate for
some time, literally oozes heroism. It seems that from this very earth,
torn by shells, comes a breath of hatred which brings the individual to
the most complete spirit of sacrifice. This is without a doubt the
reason which influenced the Allied governments to honor this martyred
city above all the others. Others have suffered more. I saw Albert, for
example. It is nothing but a heap of debris-but Verdun in ruins, a city
paved with corpses, must be for the Boches the symbol of our will to
win. The leaders of people, whether politicians or officers, who
visited it have clearly felt that- and as a reward for this tenacity
have lavished on it their choicest distinctions.

The "Stork" Group intended to announce its arrival in its very
own special way. At our very first meeting in the mess hall, Captain
D'Harcourt suggested a reconnaissance mission, and we enthusiastically
endorsed it. I for my part rejoiced, for I heard that the Germans in
this region showed plenty of fight, and their bellicose attitudes far
from displeased me.

The pattern of our departure resulted in our being
grouped purely by chance: Captain D'Harcourt, my good friend Fontaine,
two other young pilots, and myself. In starting out we seemed to run
into bad luck for our chief almost immediately had motor trouble
which prevented him from accompanying us. Ten minutes later, a Boche
patrol appeared. From the heights where we were, we immediately dived
on them, each one choosing a different target. Fontaine, to my right
had two opponents on his hands, and would have really
gotten along fine by himself if his motor had not died
on him in the middle of a turn. During his diving descent, the two
Boches who were now tailing him took the
offensive and began to fire their machine guns at him.

It was then that I intervened. I pounced on them like
a bird of prey and without giving them the time to break away. With a
burst of fire from twenty meters
in the rear, I brought down the one who was closer to me. His plane was
going to crash into our lines, and his companion, who in the meantime
became panic-stricken, took off at full speed. They had nevertheless
achieved a certain result: my patrol was dispersed

Fontaine had been forced to land, and my two rookies had gone,
I don't know where. I was circling around in the air in order to rally
my team when, to my left, a big flame suddenly burst out.

I have not often been present at the explosion of an
observation balloon, but it is a moving spectacle that one does not
forget when one has witnessed it even once. This fire is the danger
that all hydrogen-inflated dirigibles fear. They spoke of a recent
development
which would permit this gas to be replaced by helium. However, for my
part, I never saw our aviation service experiment with it. It would
have been desirable
however, to have such an improvement in effect, for the observer, who
is not able to leave his basket or
time, is generally burned alive without being able to protect himself
from the flames. I don't like to fight the enemy in this way and I
prefer to leave the job of destroying these defenseless fellows to the
specialists.

But when the victims are ours, my comrades and I
unable to defend them successfully, try at all odds to avenge them. I
therefore flew toward the fire and soon spotted four Fokkers who, after
the attack, were heading
back to their field without too much speed.

More Medals

The poor weather of October, 1917 limited Fonck's flying time, but in
just thirteen hours in his logbook, he claimed ten aerial victories
(only four were confirmed). He continued to pile up kills and
recognition, only going on leave over Christmas to get married.
He returned to his escadrille in January, 1918, shooting down an
Albatros and a Fokker in one day, his first double kill.

On May 9, 1918, he shot down six German planes. Lingering fog
delayed his start that day until four in the afternoon. Escorted by two
other Spads, Fonck flew toward the lines, coming upon a Boche camera
plane and its two escorts. He promptly dived at and shot down the
first, and then the second fighter. As the third German plane tried to
escape, Fonck got on its tail and blew it up. Three planes in minutes.
He returned to his base and took off again at 5:30. An hour later he
emerged from a cloud, below a German two-seater and blasted it. Nine
German machines then challenged him. Incredibly he got behind them and
picked off the "Tail-End-Hans," for his fifth kill of the day. As the
remaining eight tried to maneuver him over their lines, he got one more
to make it six in the day. Six in one day!

By August, he had accumulated 55 official kills, and passed
Guynemer's score. On the 14th, he shot down three planes in ten
seconds; they almost fell on each other. In September, he had another
six-victory day. When the Armistice came, he was officially credited
with 75 aerial victories, the most of any Allied pilot, a number only
exceeded by Germany's Red Baron, von Richthofen. (Fonck himself claimed
to have shot down 120, surely an inflated number.)

Postwar

He continued flying after the war. In the mid-Twenties, he sought to
fly the Atlantic, the Holy Grail of aviation pioneers, a New York to
Paris flight. Teaming with Igor Sikorsky, they prepared a three-engine
craft, the S.35. He tested the aircraft for days, but when he first
tried the long flight on September 26, 1926, a faulty fuel tank brought
him down. A few days later, on a second attempt, the S.35 crashed and
burned on take-off, killing two other crew members.
Before Fonck and Sikorsky could try again, Lindbergh had made the first
flight.

Eventually, his vanity soured his relations with the press, and he
lost much of his wartime popularity. In 1939, he retired as France's
Inspector of Pursuit Aviation. He died in 1953, at age fifty-nine.